


Something Real

by Schwoozie



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Standing at the newly hired gardener's door at two in the morning isn't the most ridiculous thing Beth's done since her daddy died, but it comes pretty darn close.” </p><p>Atonement AU. Beth is traumatized, Daryl is stuck, and Maggie thinks she saw them headed for the library...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for canonical character death, as well as descriptions of a suicide attempt and physical trauma.
> 
> Thanks to my perfect beta, milkshakemicrowave <3

Beth Greene stands at Daryl Dixon's door, shivering in her thin robe and scolding herself ten ways from Sunday. The grandfather clock in the foyer had just chimed two as she tiptoed by it, eyes keen and ears sharp for the sound of feet on the landing. Maggie would have a conniption if she discovered Beth out of bed so late; if she weren't so worn down from handling the estate and caring for Beth, she probably would have been up in a moment. As it is, though, she had slept soundly on as Beth slipped from the room they've been sharing and darted out across the lawn, silk slippers flashing and dying themselves brown and green in the grass. She hadn't dared take the time to change out of her nightgown; the time when Maggie might have woken, or she might have changed her mind.

Beth won't allow herself to change her mind. Beth Greene is on a mission.

Daryl Dixon's shack is a little ways down from the main house, choked by wheelbarrows and bags of leaves that he's dragged from the grounds. It isn't shoddily built—even with Hershel gone, the Greenes have money enough to outfit their servants—but it hasn't been maintained; if it weren't hidden at the edge of the woods bordering the estate, it would stand out like a sore thumb on the perfectly manicured lawn. Beth can smell the remains of some sort of cooked meat seeping through the door, as well as the propane from the gas stove. Surrounding it all is the sharp, earthy smell of the outdoors that covers the whole place like moss.

Beth rubs her arms as she eyes the door up and down, shifting from foot to foot as she tries to keep warm. Standing at the newly hired gardener's door at two in the morning isn't the most ridiculous thing she's done since her daddy died, but it comes pretty darn close. And she couldn't call slicing at her wrists with a broken mirror ridiculous. Beth can still feel Patricia working the stitches through her flesh; can still see the blurs of red and gold and black as she squints through teary eyes, stomach rolling at the familiar, coppery scent of blood. It looks just like her daddy's blood; only less of it, and somehow both more and less real, now that it's her own. The carpet was stained beyond repair, as were her sheets; by morning the carpet had been torn up, the sheets themselves burned. All that remains of that night is the scar on Beth's wrist and the bags under Maggie's eyes, and the churning in Beth's stomach that maybe she should have cut a little deeper.

“Come on, Beth,” she mutters to herself, rocking forwards and backwards on her earth-stained heels. “Knock or go back to bed. It ain't this hard.”

Of course, it is hard; everything's been hard, since the car crash that left her and Daddy at the bottom of a ravine, the calf of his leg hanging on only by tendons and veins as she desperately tried to stop the blood that poured out, out, turning her snow white dress crimson and painting hieroglyphs across her cheeks. It took a day and a night for them to be found; a day and a night before her shivering body and her daddy's unmoving one could be cut out of the wreckage. It's been weeks, and Beth can't stop seeing it, feeling it: the crusty brown of dried blood behind her eyelids, the waxy sheen of her father's skin beneath her fingers, the smell of copper and leaking gasoline that burned itself into her nose. She can see it, see him; see her father's drooping face in the veins of Daryl Dixon's door.

She's staring so deeply into the wood that she hardly notices when it opens, only registers the white of an undershirt beneath an earth-brown tee attached to the trunk and shoulders of the gardener, now standing in the door and looking her up and down in disbelief.

“The fuck you want?” he grunts, voice rugged and clouded with the hour.

Beth feels her resolve shake and prepare to crumble. She shouldn’t expect anything from him; they've barely shared two words together in the few weeks he's been here, hired by Hershel before his death and taken on some time after it. Beth doesn't even know if he knows her name; he probably only sees her as the pathetic little girl who couldn’t handle her daddy dying.

Beth stands blinking up at him, twisting her robe in her fingers.

“I'm... I'm real sorry to disturb you, but—“

“I ain't here for the princess's amusement—“

“D'you have anything to drink?” Beth blurts out.

He stares at her for a long moment, then two, wetting his lips and bracing himself on the door frame. “I beg your pardon?”

“A drink. Alcohol. Gin or whiskey or—“

“I know what alcohol is,” he snaps. He squints at her, tilting his head. “You even old enough to drink?”

Beth glares at him, feeling a spike of emotion she hasn't felt in a long time. “I ain't a kid.”

He snorts. “Yeah, and I'm no nanny. Get on back to the house before someone finds you.”

“No.”

“Girl—“

“You'll have to drag me back.”

“You don't think I will?” he says, soft, dangerous; Beth is suddenly very aware of how much bigger he is than her, of the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his hands where they clench at his sides.

But she's her daddy's daughter, and she stands up straight, glaring right back. “No. I don't.”

“And why not?”

“Cause I'm asking you.” She feels the fight leave her a bit, and her shoulders slump. “Please. I can't be in that house right now. I can't stop seeing...” Beth bites her lip. “Just one drink. That's it, I swear. Then I'll leave you alone.”

He stares at her for another unfathomable moment, assessing something. She doesn't let herself turn away, just stares right into his face. She's never been this close to him before; has only been aware of him as a sharp-eyed, grime-covered presence lurking along the lawn and below the window boxes. An unkempt fringe hangs in his eyes, but he isn't unhandsome, Beth realizes, not when he's looking at her like there isn't anything else in his head. Beth is hit with another wave of trepidation as he stares at her and something funny starts to jiggle in her belly—but then he's grunting and stepping aside, holding the door open for her. She stares at the threshold, suddenly unsure. She's never been alone with a man who wasn't her brother before. And Maggie could wake up any moment...

But Beth came here for a reason, and goddamn, she'll see it through. Squaring her shoulders, she marches through the door. He closes it behind her with a click.

Her nervousness leaves her a bit as she peers around, curious to see a space so alien to what she knows. The room is small, but cozy; it's lit by a single light bulb swinging from the ceiling, and several candles that set fire to the prowling shadows. An enormous black crossbow sits in one corner; hanging above it is a string of rabbit skins drying in the backdraft from the stove. A stack of books balances precariously on the counter; one of them is spread open on the room's only table, accompanied by the room's only wood-backed chair.

Beth walks over to the table and picks up the book, flipping to the cover page. “Engineering?” she asks, smoothing her fingers over the type.

“'M studying it,” he says from behind her; his voice carries in the stuffy room, making him feel closer to her than he is.

“You don't like being a gardener?” Beth asks, laying it down and carefully turning back to the correct page.

He snorts. “Princess, I don’t wanna know what kind of life you have, makes this job seem glamorous.” She hears the sound of groaning wood, and turns to see that he's sunk into a large, moth-eaten armchair. He lounges, watching her through half-closed eyes. “Don't think you know me.”

“It was just a question.”

“And you got my answer.” He shifts in the chair, scratching his cheek. “What you here for again?”

Beth stands up straight. She hopes she looks more grown up in the light. “I want a drink.”

He snorts again, and heaves himself up. “The big house don't have some kind of stash? Rich people got no standards.”

“There is,” Beth says, shifting from foot to foot as he moves around the room, his movements startlingly loud in the small space. “It's all soft stuff that Maggie likes. Peach and schnapps whatevers. I don't want just a taste. I wanna get drunk.”

He eyes her up and down again, in a manner that makes her toes tingle. “Shouldn't take all that much.”

“Not supposed to drink alone, though, are you.”

He sends her a sharp glance, then grunts noncommittally. He jerks his chin at the table in the middle of the room. “Move the book and siddown.”

She sits herself at the table, tucking her robe around herself as he pulls out a box of mason jars. Liquid swirls around inside them, glittering in the candlelight.

“What's that?” she asks.

“Moonshine,” he says, plunking the box down in front of her. “You wanna get drunk fast, you try this stuff. It'll burn your eyes out, you drink it right.”

She looks up at him, frowning. “Really?”

He sighs harshly, grabbing his own jar and throwing himself back into the armchair. “No, Jesus; don't be so serious.” He jerks his chin at her. “Drink up so you can get outta here.”

Hesitantly, Beth reaches into the crate and selects the one with the least liquid. She recognizes the jars as the kind that Patricia uses to make jam. The crate itself looks handmade, and made well; she runs a finger along it and finds no splinters, feeling only the dull pull of the grain. With her other hand she traces the rim of the jar, inhaling shallowly as the scent of the alcohol burns the back of her throat. She's suddenly hit with a memory—a smell not quite this strong, but similar; laid over with something sweet and sticky but sharp all the same, wrapping around her head as she sits at her Daddy's side in his study, head leaning on his shoulder as he sips his whiskey and turns a page. Every so often he'll turn his head and press a kiss into her hair; she smiles, closing her eyes and squeezing his arm in return. The whiskey and moonshine swirl in the air between them and the memory, and she can almost feel it beading in pearls on her upper lip. Pressure is building behind her eyes, and she squeezes the mason jar tight.

“—you better be as much a lightweight as you look, I ain't up for making more ‘cause you clean me out... hey.” She sees his blurred form rising from the chair. “Miss Greene? Y'alright?”

She swipes at her eyes, sniffling. “It's Beth,” she says thickly. Her fingers clench around the jar until her knuckles go white; then she defiantly raises it to her lips and downs half of it in one gulp.

He's whisked the glass out of her hands before she's even started hacking, coughing against the burn that blazes along the back of her throat and up her nose. His large hand pounds her back lightly as she comes down from it, sticking her tongue out and gagging.

“Jeeze, that's awful,” she says. She looks up at him. “How do you drink that stuff?”

“Slowly,” he says wryly. He realizes he's left his hand on her shoulder and draws back, leaning his hip on the table. He hands the jar back to her. “Try again. It'll taste better the more you drink.”

She scrunches her nose. “Don't know how it can taste worse.” She takes the jar back from him and sips slowly, swallowing thickly. The longer it lingers in her throat, the more pleasant the burn becomes; a warm haze begins to spread behind her eyes, and she sways in the chair.

“C'mmon, let's get you on the floor. Won't have so far to fall.” She follows the loose loop of his hand around her arm as she slides to the floor, leaning against the table. He sits across from her, on the floor as well, his back against his arm chair. She stares into her drink as she feels him regarding her.

The weight of his gaze is like a physical force on her skin; she glances up and catches his eye. “What?” she asks, flexing her fingers so they don't float away.

“Why're you here?” he asks.

“Told you. Wanted a drink.”

“Yeah, you said that. Why you need one so badly?”

Beth sips at her drink. It's going down much easier now. “Thinkin' too much.” He hmms softly and takes his own gulp, fingers playing with a loose thread on his slacks. Beth mirrors his posture, slouched back, one leg bent and curved towards her chest. “What're you thinking about?”

“How I'm gonna get fired for havin' a crazy-ass heiress in my house,” he says wryly.

Beth frowns, struggling to think clearly. “Maggie’s the heiress, not me. And why would you get fired? I'm the one who came here.”

“And I'm the one who got you drunk and took advantage.”

“Huh?”

“That's what they'd say.”

“Why?”

“Why d'you think?” he asks, exasperated.

“I dunno, 's why I asked.” She takes another sip. “You're right, it is getting better.”

“Jeeze, you get drunk easy,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You ain't even finished one of those.”

“Neither have you.” She smiles a little, shakily. “Better hurry up before I beat you.”

He stares at her, shaking his head. “I must be fuckin' asleep,” he mutters into his drink. “This stuff don't happen in real life.”

“That happens to me lots,” Beth says.

“What happens?”

“I think I'm dreaming. When I'm not.” Beth sways slightly, closing her eyes to sleepy slits. “I know you think I'm dumb.”

He snorts. “What gave you that idea?”

“'Tried to kill myself, didn't I?” She doesn't notice the surprise on his face; it isn't what he expected her to say. “'Didn't even know what I was doing at first. Just looked in that mirror and couldn't recognize who was looking back. I didn't even know I'd done it, till Maggie started screaming.” She looks into her drink, losing herself. “Didn't even hurt, not really. Not till later.”

The silence sits heavily between them. “You ever hurt yourself like that?” she asks suddenly, looking up. “Even just... on accident, but not really. Like it ain't in your control what happens, but it's still your fault. Everyone says it ain't, but you know you could'a stopped it.” She falls silent, staring him with wide eyes. Something deep inside her says she's said too much, but she can't seem to pull the words back out of the air to understand what they mean.

He looks at her for a long time, picking at his slacks, head tilted like a curious cat. She has a sudden desire to pet his head, run her fingers through his hair and scratch his scalp—she's about to lean forward to try when he says, suddenly, “Yeah.”

“Yeah what?”

“Yeah, I done that.”

“Done what?”

“Had an accident on purpose.”

“Oh.” Beth bites her lip. “What happened?”

He shifts uncomfortably, looking away from her. Even in the dim light, she can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. “I didn't have a good daddy like you did.” Beth's eyes widen, but he doesn't notice. He's still looking at the wall, his own vision swimming with the beginning of a buzz. “He wasn't a good man. Beat my brother, till he left; then he beat me.” The gardener snorts. “Had to go to war to get away from him. Knew if I got hurt, they'd ship me back home, back to him; but I didn't care. Didn't take care of myself. Had to stitch myself up a few times, hide it so they wouldn't send me home. But I kept doin' it, cause... I kept seein' him. My dad. Couldn't get away from him. I lost myself for a while.” He tilts his head, regarding her. “That's what this is about? Your dad?”

Beth huddles in on herself, clutching the mason jar to her chest. “You know what happened to him?” she asks.

“A bit. Know there was a crash, and you were in it.”

“His leg came off,” Beth says softly, staring into her drink. “The whole thing, just... all that had it hanging on was bits an’ pieces. There was so much blood... it looked just like the tomato juice Patricia makes me ‘nd Maggie when we’re sick. The hood was all crumpled. I couldn't get out.” Beth blinks at the ripples spreading from the center of the jar, sniffs as another tear falls. “He was passed out when I work up, 'nd I couldn't get him back. I could see... inside him. The bone, it was,” she makes a movement with her hand, gesturing, “all out there. I didn't know it was actually white inside you. Thought they just did that for museums, so kids wouldn't be scared.” She looks up at the gardener. He looks ten years younger than he did, his eyes are so wide, watching her, silent and unjudging. “I'd never done anything like this before, never took first-aid or anything useful. Just sat around reading and dreaming my whole life while people...” She sniffles loudly. “You were at war, and Daddy was, and I was playing with dolls. And he was bleeding and I didn't know what to do.”

“There wasn't anythin' you could do.”

“Maggie could'a done something,” Beth says quietly. “She went to nursing school, for a bit, before Daddy died. If it'd been her—“

“Beth,” he says, then pauses, like her name stops something inside him, “Beth, if his whole leg were off, you'd'a needed a surgeon. Even with training... you were out all night, right? He'd'a bled out no matter what.”

“I can't stop seeing him,” Beth says softly, looking into her drink. “And when I saw that mirror, it looked like the way the steel of the car looked. And I wanted... I wanted to see it again. The blood was all behind my eyes and I needed to see it was real, that I wasn't just dreaming it. I can't stop seein' him. I see him and I see me and I don’t know the difference.”

They sit in silence for a long time. Beth finishes her drink and stumbles to her feet for a new one, collapsing back to the floor and sliding one across so he can have another too. She starts in on hers, but he just stares at his, like he doesn't understand quite where the night has gone.

Beth laughs, suddenly, making him jerk.

“What?”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah,” he says, without hesitating.

Beth smiles sleepily. “I've never had anything to drink before. This's my first.”

He snorts. “And why's that so funny?”

Beth shrugs. “I dunno. This is the first time we've talked, the first time I get drunk. Lotta firsts, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says deeply. He regards her closely. “I reckon you better get back to the house now.”

“I like you,” Beth says quietly, freezing him where he had been trying to waver to his feet. “Erryone's been all quiet around me. Like I'm a ghost and they don't want to get on my bad side.” She snorts, feeling a tear leaking from the corner of her eye. “Shawn went all the way back to school to get away from me. Maggie's probably gettin' married soon, and I'll still be here, just... drifting.”

“It'll get better,” he says, clenching and unclenching his hands.

She grins at him, slowly. “You don't believe that.”

He's gotten as far up as the armchair, and sits there with his elbows on his knees. He smirks back at her. “No, not really. But if anyone can do it, you can.”

“Why d’you say that?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. A feeling. A man like your daddy, loved you like he did, you gotta be somethin' special.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Not much. We met just a few times. He was the judge for one'a my brother's trials.” He sits quietly, rubbing his hands together, remembering. “He was a good man, Beth. Good men make good daughters. You'll do fine.”

“Maybe you just gotta keep reminding me of that.”

He smiles at her crookedly, and something warm and wriggly bubbles up through Beth's stomach.

“C'mmon,” he says, “let's get you back to the house.”

“A'right,” Beth says. She struggles to her feet, leaning heavily on the table. “Whoa,” she breathes, looking up at him. “You're real tall.”

He chuckles. “'Nd you're real drunk. Gonna need lots'a coffee in the morning.”

“You need some... coffee.” Beth tries to take a step, but stumbles, tripping over her feet and into his side. He's broad and hard and warm, and when she presses her forehead to his shoulder the spinning behind her eyes begins to slow. “Wha's yer name, again? I forgot.”

“Daryl. Dixon. Daryl Dixon.”

“Mister Dixon,” she says, giggling sleepily. He slings one of her arms around his shoulders and begins to walk her out. “D'you like me, Daryl?”

“I just met you an hour ago.” They've emerged into the night by now; the only light comes from the first floor of the house up ahead, and the fireflies blinking on and off around their heads.

“But do ya like me?” Beth asks.

“You're a'right,” Daryl mumbles, shifting his hold on her. “Jesus, I hope no one's awake.”

“I can go on my own.”

“No, you really can't. Shut yer mouth and let me concentrate.”

“Don't you tell me what ta do.”

“Yer blind drunk; I can do whatever I want.”

“Do it, then.”

“Shut up,” he growls.

“Fine,” she says, pouting. He sighs heavily, glancing up. They've reached the servant's door; he holds her against his hip as he uses the other hand to open it. Cesar, the Greene's old basset hound, lifts his head sleepily as they shuffle in.

“Thanks,” Beth mumbles, moving out from under his arm to lean against the wall. “I'm good from here, I think.”

“Good.” Daryl stands awkwardly for a moment, looking at her swaying sleepily. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, grinning when she sees him looking. “Remember the coffee,” he says abruptly, feeling there should be something to say. “And don't tell no one where you got the booze, if you have to tell. Don't wanna get on your sister's bad side.”

Beth giggles. “Nah, you really don't.” She looks at him, smiling. “Thanks, Daryl.”

“Yeah,” he says, shuffling his shoulders uncomfortably. He nods at her once, jerkily, then disappears out the kitchen door, disappearing in a swirl of fireflies.

Beth doesn't remember how she gets herself up to bed; all she knows in the morning is the worst headache she's had in her life, even worse than after the crash. She begs a fever to a frantic Maggie, who consigns her to bed-rest for the day. She only leaves the room to shuffle to the kitchen and drown a pot of coffee, and to go to the bathroom to evacuate it.

She looks at herself in the mirror as she washes her hands; her hair flies in a crazy halo around her head, and her skin is pallid against the bruises beneath her eyes. She stands there for a long time, looking at herself, seeing herself, in the mirror so new it still shines; she touches the reflection softly, lining up her fingers one by one.

She smiles, a little crooked, a little sad, and goes back to bed.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several weeks after their night in his shack, Daryl and Beth have another encounter.

Beth hasn't had a real meal in three days, and she sees no need to start now.

She isn't trying to be contrary, as she's told Maggie again and again; insisted to Patricia as she heaped eggs and potatoes high on her plate, even as she sat with her to chat as if company would open the clenching in Beth's chest. She remembers what they tried to get her to eat after they found her and Daddy in the car: braised chicken with lemon sauce, the finest the cook had to offer, accompanied by hot chocolate made with heavy cream. She remembers looking at the cleanly cleaved thigh, brown and shining with glaze, a light touch of char down one side, and seeing her father's leg, neatly cured and salted. She'd thrown up in the sink, and hasn't been able to eat meat since.

It's been a long week, one of the bad ones. Beth can't sleep. She wakes whimpering in the middle of the night, a draining sensation in her veins and a pounding in her chest. Maggie's done her best; she's still sleeping in the room with Beth, still rises along with her to pat her forehead with wet cloths and hold her hand—but Beth almost wishes she would leave well enough alone. It's hard enough for Beth to account for herself, without Maggie flitting about her every moment.

Today she woke ready to crawl back into bed, but she can't allow herself to do that anymore. Daddy wouldn't have accepted it. He had been born a farmer like his father before him; it was only by the strength of his will that he dragged himself up from subsistence to become one of the most respected lawyers in the county. Maggie tells her to stay in bed, to rest, but Beth thinks of Daddy sweating at the crack of dawn, walking five miles to school in Atlanta at night, collapsing into bed only to rise and do it again, rise and rise until he had an estate to hand down to his daughters, a life of comfort and rest. But Beth can't abide that. If she's going to live, she can't rest; she has to keep going. It's the only thing left to her.

And now she sits at the counter, head in her arms, the smell of eggs ripe in her nose and choking her throat.

She hears a sound from behind her—like a cough, or someone clearing their throat, and she sits up quickly, trying not to seem so despondent. When her eyes lock with Daryl's, though, she relaxes, returning his wry smile.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” he says.

It's the first time they've been alone together since their late-night adventure several weeks before; but Beth's felt him watching her, and she's watched him in return. They've run into each other a few times in the hallways or the gardens; but she'd been with Maggie or Patricia every time, and when she tried to engage him he'd glance at her companion and shy away, head down and surly as he returned to his work. The first time had been a day after she recovered from her hangover, and she very nearly took it personally—cursed herself for how silly she'd been, invading an employee's home in the middle of the night to burden him with her problems.

But then she saw the looks he gave her, furtive, when her sister wasn't looking, and she began to think of it differently. It was like that night had become something special, a secret just for the two of them, something all their own. Beth has everything she could ever want, but she's never had something of her own before; not really; not like this; not a shared memory that burns through alcohol stained eyes and settles in her belly like the welcomeness of sleep. She's wondered about him, this Daryl Dixon—wonders what he saw in her, that made him want to let her through his door.

He's still hovering in the doorway, looking increasingly uncomfortable as she stares at him. She snaps herself out of it with a small shake.

“Sorry,” she says, chuckling nervously. “I didn't get much sleep last night.”

He snorts and finally enters the room, walking to the sink. “D'you ever sleep, girl?”

“Not much.” Beth puts her chin on her crossed arms, watching him fill a canteen and then a glass from the tap. “You want some iced tea? Patricia made it special this morning.”

“Nah. Makes me piss too much.”

Beth raises her eyebrows at his language, but doesn't comment; just lets the openness of his words swirl round her head like mayflies.

“Whatcha working on?” Beth asks as he turns around. He's wearing the same outfit as he was the night she met him, but with boots and without the shirt—his undershirt is stained with a rancid mix of dirt and sweat that spreads down his arms and up his neck. She looks at the swipe across his forehead and finds it strangely endearing; she can picture him wiping the sweat away with the back of his hand, leaving the smear like a child with chocolatey fingers. His limbs are work strengthened and hard—she's seen him loading mulch into the pickup before, seen the easy strain in his arms. She has a sudden, crazy image of him carrying her up the grand staircase as if she were light as a potted plant. She squelches the thought with a blush, suddenly feeling indecent.

“'M prettying up the pond, down the hill,” he says, throwing back a gulp of his water. “Putting in stones, flowers, shit like that.”

“Why?” Beth asks.

He gives her a strange look. “Cause I'm paid to.”

“I always thought it looked nice enough.”

Daryl shrugs. “'S what your sister wants.”

“What Maggie wants could fill a phone book.” Beth sighs and buries her face in her arms again. “Take some food if you want it,” she says, the words muffled by her sleeves.

“You ain't hungry?”

“No.”

There's no sound for a moment, only her breathing loud in the cage of her arms; then she hears his quiet footsteps and the scrape of a stool across the floor. She looks up as he settles himself next to her and drags the plate towards himself, tucking in with gusto.

“Someone's hungry.”

“Try draggin' rocks around all day, see how you like it.” He glances at her sideways, eyes partly obscured by his fringe. “You really ain't hungry?”

“Nah,” she says quietly. “I haven't been eating much.”

He chews noisily for a few moments, looking at her. “You feel any better afterwards?” he asks. He doesn't have to say what he's referring to.

“After drinking myself under the table, you mean,” she says jokingly.

“Weren't quite under the table yet,” he says with a small smirk.

She shudders. “Well, I don't think I'll ever want to get to that point, if I'd feel that bad in the morning.”

He's full out grinning now, bits of spinach in his teeth. “Pretty bad, huh?”

“The worst,” Beth groans. “How d'you deal with it? I saw you mowing the lawn bright and early that morning.”

“Practice, practice, practice.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “I can teach you sometime.”

“Teach me to drink?”

“'F you want,” he mumbles, mouth full of eggs.

“Think I'll stick with iced tea for a bit, thanks. Even if it makes me, uh, piss.”

He snorts. “Don't you talk like that in front of your sister. Don't want her to know where you get it from.”

Beth tilts her head, frowning. “Why shouldn't she know we're friends?”

“Tons of reasons.” He chews for a moment, then looks at her, a small knit between his eyebrows. “And who said we're friends?”

Beth feels her stomach sink, and she bites her lip. “I'm sorry, I just thought—“

“Don't gotta be sorry,” he mumbles, looking at the counter, then back up at her, full on this time, like he wants her to listen. “Never had a friend like you before, 's all.”

“And what am I like?” Beth asks teasingly.

He looks at her, and Beth's breath stutters under the way he stares, like she's one of those Chinese puzzle boxes and he's trying to open her. She stares back, a high blush building on her cheeks. She waits, breath held, for what he has to say.

He blinks, then pops a piece of potato into his mouth, sucking the grease off his fingers with three loud pops.

“Ew, Daryl, gross,” she says, leaning away from him.

“Too chatty for your own good, that's for sure.”

“You want a deal? You teach me to drink, I'll teach you some table manners.”

He snorts. “No deal, sunshine. I ain't changin' for no one.”

“Really?”

“'S part of my charm.”

“Uh-huh.”

She watches him eat silently for a few moments, then he says, abruptly, “'Specially some bratty teenager.”

Beth feels something sink in her at those words; but he isn't looking at her as he says it, so she can take the moment to gather herself.

“I ain't bratty.”

“But you are a teenager,” he says, like he's daring her to confirm it. “How old're you, fifteen?”

Beth straightens to her full height on the stool, glaring down at him where he slouches. “I am eighteen years old, thank you very much. I told you before, I ain't a kid.”

“Wish you were,” he mumbles, almost too low for her to hear.

“What?”

“Nothin'.” He's finished eating, and wipes his hands off on his jeans with a few dragging smacks. “I should be getting' back now.”

“Ok,” Beth says quietly. She looks down at her hands, fiddling with her fingers.

She feels the weight of his gaze on her before he says, “What're you gonna do?”

Beth shrugs. “I dunno. Read, I guess. Contemplate the meaning of life or somethin'.”

Daryl frowns. “Your sister don't give you nothin' to do?”

“I didn't finish school before Daddy died; there's nothing to do.”

“You're bright, there's gotta be somethin'.”

Beth smiles, softly. “Thanks for sayin' that. But I'm fine. You go on.”

“Why don't you come with me?”

Beth stares at him, frowning. “Pardon?”

He looks embarrassed, shifting on his stool. “Ya know. Down the lawn and stuff. 'F you got nothing better to do.”

She smiles, slowly, brilliantly. “I'd like that.”

“Good.” He look at her, up and down her hair and around the neck of her dress. She finds herself blushing, but forces herself not to fidget. “Better bring a blanket, so you don't muck up your clothes.”

“I'll get one,” Beth says, bounding off her stool. He's never seen her move this quickly. Daryl follows more slowly, watching as she puts the empty plate in the sink. “Meet you down there?”

“A'right,” he says.

“A'right, then.”

* * *

 

Daryl is going to be fired. Daryl will be fired, his house will be burned down, and he'll be chased out of town like he and Merle used to be chased out of junkyards. All cause of this damn slip of a girl in her pretty green dress.

“Thanks for eating my food, by the way,” she calls down to him. She's sitting on a pink picnic sheet that brings out the rose tones in her skin, watching as he plops fist-sized stones into the perimeter of the pond. It isn't the hardest work he's done; the stones are easy to move, now that he's got them down from the truck that delivered them; but his back and thighs are aching from crouching, and he can feel a fierce sunburn blazing up the back of his neck. He envies Beth the large white sunhat that partly obscures her face, wonders if he should find himself a farmer's hat or something. He still hears Merle's voice in his ear, chiding him to spare himself the indignity; but Merle's never had to throw stones in the hot Georgia sun.

“No problem,” he grunts, setting another stone in place.

“Patricia's been riding me about it,” Beth says. She's been talking all the time he's been working. At the beginning he thought it would grow to annoy him, but it's ended up as a comfort, the steady chirp of her voice soothing his racing heartbeat. The time's gone by quickly, with her voice in the air. “Poor dear,” Beth says loudly, in a perfect imitation of the housekeeper's voice. “I do wish she would eat something; it isn't healthy for a girl her age to be skin and bones.”

Daryl smirks to himself. “Ain't healthy for no one,” he replies.

“I know; they think I'm a special case or something. Like trying to kill yourself makes you hungry as an elephant.” Daryl glances at her beneath his arm. She isn't looking at him, instead gazing up at the treeline behind the pond. “Miss Margaret is so worried about you,” Beth says, again in Patricia's high northern voice. Her knees are clasped tight to her chest as she rocks slowly back and forth. “Stays up all hours, taking care of you. Might be good to think of her for a change.” By the end, Beth's back in her own voice, albeit a bit choked.

Daryl stands up straight, stretching his arms above his head and arching his back. He sees Beth looking at him when he relaxes, but she quickly glances away.

“Seems like worrying's the only time she has for you.”

Beth shrugs, watching as he stomps up the hill towards her, collapsing on the grass so as not to stain her blanket. “It ain't her fault. She has a lot on her plate.”

Daryl lies back in the grass with a grunt, one knee bent and with the back of his hand across his eyes. He can feel the heat of the sun and her gaze on his face.

They sit in silence for several moments, listening to the wind in the trees and the buzz of insects in the grass.

“What was the war like?” she asks.

Daryl snorts. “Loud,” he says.

“Loud?”

“Loud.” Daryl sits back up on his elbows, looking at her from the side of his eyes. “Guns goin' off everywhere, men yelling, horses screaming. The artillery was like being on the inside of a thunderstorm that's stopped moving.”

He can hear her picking at the brown paper bag that has his lunch in it—cheese and bologna, the same as every day, the only thing he allows himself to take from the kitchen.

“Daddy never talked about it,” she says.

“He was an officer?”

She nods. “Medical corps. Sometimes when we were in town, some man would come up to him—missing a leg or an arm, usually—and hug him, right there in the middle of the street. He never sewed no one up or nothing, he was just in charge of personnel, least that's what Shawn said—but they all remembered him.” Beth wrings her hands in her lap. They both have their eyes on her hands—watch them, curling around themselves like snakes. “Couldn't sew a stitch to save his life—but he gave them hope.”

“He was that kind'a man,” Daryl says.

“Yeah.” Beth looks down at him, chewing her lip. “You have a brother, right?”

Daryl exhales heavily. “Had a brother.”

“Oh,” Beth says quietly. “I'm sor—“

“Nah, he ain't dead,” Daryl says, lying back down and squinting up at her. The shade from the trees has shifted enough to lie across her face; she's haloed half in light, half in dark. “Just don't want him in my life no more.”

“What did he do?” Beth asks, looking at him with her big eyes.

Daryl shrugs uncomfortably, closing his eyes again. “Got involved in bad stuff. Drug rings, coming out of New Orleans. Girls, guns, you name it, Merle's got his fingers in it.”

“You said you met Daddy when he was trying him; he's in jail?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever visit him?”

Daryl barks a short laugh. “Please. Merle'd never let me hear it down if I went. Call me a pussy and yell me out on my ass.”

Beth is quiet for a minute; he opens his eyes and sees her looking at the ground between them, the wind blowing wisps of hair into her face. “I guess it isn't fair of me, to complain about Maggie,” she says quietly. She looks at him, smiling softly. “Guess we're both missing people, then. My daddy, your brother.”

“I wouldn't put them in the same category, sunshine.”

“Still,” Beth says earnestly, leaning forward. “You miss him, don't you.”

Daryl closes his eyes, thinking. Remembering. Remembers growing up in a shack in Nowhere, Georgia, spat on by black and white alike. Remembers his daddy's hollering all the way back to when he was a baby chained up in the basket they used for a bassinet, or curled up on his mama's drugged-out body. Remembers when Merle started to holler right back, soon after Daryl could walk; how he'd slink into the back of their shack in the middle of the night, black and blue and bleeding after Daddy called Mama a name Merle'd only seen scratched into the boy's toilets. Remembers himself, coming home late after wandering up and down the road, looking west, looking east, imagining some rich stranger would roll up in their Ford and take Daryl and Merle and their Mama up north, where two-bit rednecks didn't chum with police chiefs or beat their kids. Daryl knows better now, of course; knows that no one would have rescued a piece of shit like him—couldn’t stand up and be a man a day in his life; knows Daddy wouldn't have let them go anyway. They were too important to his balance—spend a hard day's work on the job, beat his wife and kids at home, screw the foreman's daughter and build other people's mansions with a smile. It was all Mr. Dixon knew how to do; it was all Merle learned; at least the screwing, and the part where the world owed him nothing he didn't grab with his own, gnarled, no-good hands.

Just when Daryl's about to say something—yes, he misses him—no, he's glad he's gone—maybe, in another life, when Merle had paid more attention to Daryl than the drink in his veins, or Daryl's daddy had given them love instead of bruises, he could have given a straight answer—

—she speaks.

“Listen,” she says suddenly, a blush rising across her cheeks. “I just wanna... thank you. For this. No one else...” She laughs once, sadly. “They all think one word about Daddy and I'll fly apart or somethin'. The house has always been quiet, empty, but now it's... it's like a museum, and I'm the porcelain doll they all gather 'round to see.”

“You're stronger than they think, Beth.”

The look she gives him, Daryl wishes he hadn't said it. She looks at him like she did in the kitchen that night—drunk, swaying, eyes brimming over with something he can't name—like the essence of it is reaching through the air between them, touching them both. She gives him her smile, her sweet, sad little smile—and suddenly there is the shock of her hand in his, curling in the grass between them. He looks down at her pale, slim fingers wrapped around his scabbed knuckles; sees the down on her wrist shiver a little with the winding breeze. Her hand is cool, even in the heat, but it warms him down to his bones.

“You mind if I have a bite of your sandwich?” she asks suddenly. Daryl looks up at her. Her smile becomes sheepish. “I'm a bit hungry, now.”

He gives her the shadow of a smirk and jerks his chin. “Help yourself.”

She reaches into the bag and draws out the sandwich, undoes the foil; takes a half and rewraps the rest. She lays it on the blanket and breaks little bits off with her fingers, raising it to her mouth tentatively, like each taste is the first. He watches her eat every bite.

 

 


End file.
